


Justification

by alphinLacrimous



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: False Identity, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mentions of Cancer, Multi, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 10:37:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19828411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphinLacrimous/pseuds/alphinLacrimous
Summary: During their time looking after Warlock Dowling, Harriet finds out that Ashtoreth and Francis know each other, and calls the two together to assuage her suspicions about the whole situation.





	Justification

**Author's Note:**

> based on a dream i had. please mind the tags for warnings of what to expect in this fic, some of the content is darker than i planned. basically just me going through some emotional catharsis in the form of fic.

* * *

“…So. I suppose you both know why I gathered you here, yes?”

Crowl- Ashtoreth shakes her head ‘no’ in a curt motion, while Azi- Francis looks at the floor with mixed confusion and a touch of fear. Mrs Dowling nods vaguely, then continues.

“We have high security standards here, as you must understand. You must know that having two individuals show up for similar postings in the same household, seemingly already acquainted…Well, you can see why that might give us pause. You might be conspiring to kill the ambassador, for all we know. I need to know that I can trust both of you around my child.”

Ashtoreth gives a curt, understanding nod, and Brother Francis looks joyous and relieved.

“So, things being what they are, if the two of you could explain how you know each other previously, it would assuage my fears.”

There’s a slow purposeful blink of the eyes behind darkened shades, and the nanny opens her perfectly painted mouth a tic, before closing it with a click as Francis speaks up. Ashtoreth merely turns, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Aye, Miss Ashtoreth used tae work in th’orphanage run by th’convent im with wee back in Scots!”

Mrs Dowling’s look is somewhat disbelieving and Francis tuts, looking disappointed. The way Francis shifts, looks away, carries himself in a way that is similar and yet completely different from Aziraphale… its in this moment that Crowley realizes Aziraphale has actually painted an actual backstory for Brother Francis, wearing it like a second skin, rather than assume just a surface identity. It would be endearing if the angel’s accent actually sounded like any accent in particular, instead of just a haphazard mesh of sounds that sounded like a bad attempt at Cockney with random Scots thrown in.

Nanny Ashtoreth finally refocuses, having tuned out half of what Brother Francis had been saying to begin with.

“The convent wos- well i’ gaeve me a place ta avoid me father, beligerent drunk e wosh…Thae took me in when I was a wee las- laddie, th convent, helped me tae see th beauty in the world.” Here, the Brother rubs at his nose indignantly, reasserts his mouth slightly as if trying to pass off the slip of the tongue as a lisp, though the slip-up is rather… pronounced, almost intentional. Nanny Astoreth’s dark eyebrow raises a fraction of a millimetre as she removes an imaginary speck of dust from her perfectly pressed skirts.

“Being part of the church is a blessin’, mrs Dowling! Thae welcomin love’a th’Lord and beatific charity- S’a beautiful thing. An yae wouldnae believe th’ care Miss Ashtoreth takes with thae wee ones there, s’a thing of-“

 _Aziraphale_ is practically _oozing_ praise for the Church and all that is Holy with this damn-near Sermon, and it leaves a particularly nasty taste in Crowley’s mouth. She knows all about the Church of Scotland, and far too much about the child caretakers actually employed by these holy men… If the stodgy little shit likes weaving false narratives so much, two can certainly play at this game.

“Oi, shut ya gob way yae preachy self-saevin Kirk shite! Someone’s gottae make fursure th’priests keep thae pumpin hands tae thimsalves!!”

Crowley hadn’t _meant_ for it to be as harsh as she had made it, but there it was. Watched Aziraphale’s pained expression under the guise of Francis, watches Aziraphale regret the narrative they’ve weaved so carefully. But it’s done, now. Brother Francis opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, then simply presses a hand to the couch they’re both perched on opposite ends of, as if to offer it in comfort, though Nanny Ashtoreth’s hand does not move. Mrs Dowling looks…shocked. Apologetic.

But at least there’s an understanding and trust there, now.

“…I am so dreadfully sorry to have brought this up. I did hear about that nasty business in the news, I couldn’t imagine what that must be like. But…Miss Ashtoreth, I must wonder…Why would you then leave the orphanage to tend to my child? Surely you must want to return?”

Crowley’s brows furrow, struggling already with the narrative, choking on it. There’s only so much trauma they can handle at once, and the rawness of disappointment in the church, run by humans as it were, no influence from Hell, still corrupt as anything, almost chokes the demon with repressed trauma. It almost has Crowley abandoning the Nanny guise then and there to do something about it, but-

“She’s not thae only good’un there, in the house’a thae Lord! The Heavenly M- Father protects and provides for all thae-“

-Brother Francis just won’t shut the fuck up, and it leaves Crowley borderline feral, pupils blown wide with the need to attack.

And Nanny Ashtoreth yanks her glasses from her own face, unveiling those yellow eyes, pupils rounded, ready to bite. But the look of it must read somewhat different to anyone not acquainted with snake eyes, gold all the way down to the eyelids, no sclera in sight, because Mrs Dowling’s shock and fingers to her chest are not fear, but pity.

“…I need thae money. Cannae get surgery t’cut out the cancer, nae enuff healthy tissue left.” Nanny replies, sliding the sunglasses back on smoothly before the pupils can narrow into slits again. “An’ am at tae bottom a thae waitin’ list, sae by th’time a’d get one, cancer’d proble be in me lungs naixt, so…Livers cannae pay for thimselves, y’ken?”

While under the surface Aziraphale might recognize that as insanely clever, weaponizing one’s eyes for a jaundice narrative, Brother Francis’s face is nothing but sympathy and full _belief_ , and this time the warm hand is on her shoulder. Crowley almost feels the need to remind the Angel it’s just a story woven so they can still do their _damned_ part in _preventing the apocalypse_ , but…

“Cr- Coira, m’dear I’m so sorry.”

Oh. That’s a nice name. _Ashtoreth_ was supposed to be the first name, but…This fits better as one, small yet imposing, concise. Nann- _Coira_ makes a note to thank Aziraphale later, tucking the name in her collection of selves as one might store away a new pair of sunglasses.

“Ah… Will…Will your health issues interfere with your work? My uncle was not in good shape when his liver finally failed, though it was alcoholism, not…” She fumbles with her hands, and Crowl- _Coira_. Coira dimly registers that she chews her nails. Anxiety. The imposing nanny feels something resembling guilt, something unexamined about the shame of lying to her like this, though Crowley does not have room for this, no space for these emotions amongst those they’ve already dragged to the surface.

It’s all _she_ can do to shake her head ‘no’ in this moment, reassert herself as some modicum of emotionally stable, cold, unshaken. Presses the sunglasses up further, offers a shrug, folds her hands demurely in her lap.

“S’why ahm so low on thae transplant list, dearheart. M’in great health otherwise, not tae worry-” Ashtoreth offers, wincing and approaching slowly when Mrs Dowling finally bursts into tears, hands fluttering with anxiety, “-Oh no, darling, its nae- d’yae want a cuppa? Ah’m so sorry, Missus. Sit- sit taight. Brother Francis…”

Luckily the _holy man_ has the sense of mind to comfort the grieving woman while the _nanny_ trots off to the kitchen, busying hands with kettle and water just to have something to do other than focus on the fact that the two of them are positively torturing this poor woman that has only had her child for a year now. With torrid details and undue stress. For no reason other than-

-The _Apocalypse._ The _World._ Every other human being on the planet.

Aziraphale is so much _better_ at this, seeing humans as _many_ instead of individuals, able to focus on the _greater needs_ instead of focusing on one person’s individual pain. Crowley supposes it is the nature of a Principality, being made to protect large groups without judgement or exclusion, but Crowley is simply not designed for such a task.

Perhaps that’s why Crowley was shuffled out of Heaven much like one would sort paperwork, too much empathy for individuals instead of the whole. It’s not _his_ fault he was made with such intense understanding, felt their pain as his own, imprinted on and bonded with humans so closely that he can hardly tell where he ends and they begin.

It’s the whistling of the pot that brings the redhead back to reality. Brings Ashtoreth’s hands to busy themselves again with the pot, the cups, the tea leaves, everything else that went into burying the Dowling mother’s pain, _Crowley’s_ pain now, hyper-empathy driving the actions of the _demon_ back into the _nanny_ role so that Miss Coira Ashtoreth might actually perform her duties in, you know, failing to perform _his_ duties to raise young Warlock into the child that would become the Harbinger of the End of All Things.

While Ashtoreth finally strolls in swiftly with the tea, poise flawless and proper, Brother Francis is poised by Mrs Dowling’s side in a separate chair he’s pulled from Heaven-knows-where to avoid impropriety. Coira glances down, and Francis helpfully clears the small side table between them for the tray, setting books aside on the couch they originally shared at the start of the meeting.

Mrs Dowling is currently daubing at her running mascara with a tartan handkerchief, clearly in better sorts after a good cry, though she still looks stricken with emotion at the sight of the nanny currently pouring hot tea into a fresh cup with finesse. She simply nods and wraps hands around the cup once the tea is poured before Coira even has a chance to ask about cream or sugar, something very American in the way she lifts the cup and leaves behind the saucer, ignores the warmed scones on the plate to simply curl herself in the warmth of the cup before her.

The steam worsens her streaming mascara. Nanny Coira Ashtoreth tuts, plucks the handkerchief from where Mrs Dowling’s abandoned it on the saucer, daubs at the streams of mascara gently, leaving it immediately flawless once again. Mrs Dowling smiles weakly, sips at the naked tea again, visibly softens.

The Nanny and the Gardener share a _look._ As if considering each other for the first time, really _seeing_ each other. Attempting to surmise how the next ten years are going to be in a glance.

They nod to each other, a curt acknowledgement.

_This is acceptable,_ it says.

_This has gained trust for both their sides._

_This is going to balance out, bring things even enough that the Apocalypse might not happen at all._

Only, they don’t know that. They both know this.

“…Thank you.”

But at least Mrs Dowling is feeling better. So, there’s that. Maybe just for now- maybe that’s enough for just now.

She sets the teacup back on the saucer with a click, reasserting herself somewhat.

“You’ll still be in the Nanny suite, won’t you? I can have a doctor come around, if you so wish. Or perhaps you’d prefer something more comfortable…”

Brother Francis opens his mouth this time, only to shut it when Ashtoreth interjects in a singsongy voice that seems plucked from a Disney movie. “Ae wouldnae _dream of it_ , Mrs Dowling. Thae room ye’ve given is plenty. Now, if ae might take me leave, attend tae the young one?”

As if on cue, a wailing cry trails from down the hall. Francis, naturally, raises an eyebrow at the timing, shooting a glance towards Ashtoreth, but she’s already trotting down the hall like it’s truly her place in life to serve as the infant’s nanny, for better or worse.

Aziraphale finds the whole exchange…odd. Tucks it in the back of their mind, something to discuss with Crowley later, maybe when the apocalypse is finally _averted._

_For better or worse indeed._

* * *


End file.
